


For such as we are made of, such we be

by tasteofhysteria (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: AKA The Fic Where I Stomp On Moldova's Feelings Like A Bitch, Alternate Canon, Multi, OCs. OCs everywhere., Oh My God, WOW THIS IS GOING TO BE DEPRESSING, You will take my OCs being shoved at you and LIKE IT.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 17:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/tasteofhysteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we!<br/>For such as we are made of, such we be.<br/>[Sequel to “Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve”]</p>
            </blockquote>





	For such as we are made of, such we be

**Author's Note:**

> ♪”[Crime](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ctV_5JpacYw)” by Stina Nordenstam (Recommended listening)
> 
> Moldova: Ion Sollomovici
> 
> Ukraine: Lyubochka
> 
> Romania: Mircea Rădescu
> 
> Bulgaria: Anastas (“Anya”) Levski
> 
> Serbia: Vuk Lazarević (created by spasiovogsrbina)
> 
> Montenegro: Radoje Bulatović
> 
> [Sequel to “[Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve](http://archiveofourown.org/works/413178)”]

 

* * *

Going to Braşov a little more than six months ago hadn’t been a salve to suddenly make everything better and if he thought about it now, he couldn’t remember why he’d wanted to go in the first place. He hadn’t, as Ukraine had tearfully exclaimed, “finally found his sense of closure” or anything like that.

  
Truthfully, he was content to remain ripped open and raw for the rest of eternity if it meant he wouldn’t keep forgetting.  
  
On quiet nights, he’d stand on the balcony and wonder if his own forgetfulness was just a reflection of global awareness fading; if the world was starting to forget that it had been “Romania and Moldova”, not “Moldova with the ruined western front”.  
  
His neglected cigarette had burnt up to the filter, scorching his careless fingers. Moldova started and then tossed it away, shoving the afflicted digits in his mouth with a slight whimper of pain.   
  
Unbidden came the image of Romania leaning over him in the dark, moonlight like luminescent paint brushed over his bare skin in smooth lines, fingertips brushing over Moldova’s lips until they parted—  
  
With a sickened moan that was part sob and all breathy white fog dissipating into the cold October air, Moldova slumped forward until the balcony railing pressed uncomfortably into his ribs, every single solitary inch of him blistering with the knowledge that he hadn’t touched or been touched in ages, but that he wouldn’t be able to bear it if it was anyone else.  
  
Distantly he heard the telltale sound of a brief knock against the door and the squeak of the knob turning, meaning Ukraine was paying him a visit.   
  
This little ritual was changing from a monthly affair to a weekly one to a daily one now. After nearly three years, he still wasn’t sure if he liked her being there or if her visits were just unwelcome intrusions; probably somewhere in between.   
  
He knew he was being ungrateful and discourteous, that he should be in the kitchen brewing their coffee and relieving her of her coat, offering her bread and salt and laughing with her over the latest gossip about her siblings instead of standing out here on his rickety balcony, forehead pressed against the rail and breathing hard around the fingers in his mouth, listening to the cadence of her voice (if not necessarily the words) as she spoke to him from the kitchen and shuffled around in the small space in her noisy but pleasant way.  
  
He let his eyes drift shut for just a moment as he listened to her lecture him about the lack of food in the place (but he was never hungry so what was the point), how the rubbish needed to be taken out (though it was just empty cigarette packets so it wasn’t as though it would stink of rotting food), how cold it was in here—  
  
And again he had lost a moment, because he was blinking and the scenery had changed.   
  
The moon had just barely risen in the horizon, the sky was dark, he himself had somehow moved from the railing to lean against the wall. There was a mug with the last dregs of cold coffee sliding around in the bottom in his hand and Ukraine was there, pressed in tightly against his side so that he could feel her every curve.  
  
He blinked again and her fingers were cold on his face, her thumb tracing the high road of his cheekbone.  
  
“Hello,” she whispered, her breath ghosting up between them and reflecting the shine in her sad eyes. He tried to smile for her, but the sensation felt rusty and unused as if he had forgotten how.  
  
“Hello,” he whispered back.  
  
And her smile, fragile and tremulous though it was, reminded him to breathe.   
  
The soiled mugs had been abandoned in the sink for washing later.   
  
Moldova was now sprawled out on his old and too-soft sofa, his hands tracing meaningless patterns on the small of Ukraine’s back as she lay on top of him, chest to chest, legs entangled, and her chin resting on his collarbone.   
  
“…Iyonya,” Ukraine spoke quietly, as if afraid to disturb the peace of the moment.  
  
“No,” he replied firmly, already anticipating her question for the thousands of times she had asked it before.  
  
Years or months or even weeks ago, her face would’ve twisted into a slight scowl as she tried to argue with him.   
  
Now she just sighed in defeat and buried her face in his shirt.  
  
“It’s not healthy to keep yourself locked up in here,” she said, voice muffled. “You need to go out, Iyonya. See your people, meet with your boss, visit Anya,  _anything_ , just…”  
  
The air shivered warningly, like glass right before it splintered.  
  
“You need to take your life back.”  
  
“Lyubochka—”  
  
“No,” she cut in stubbornly, “no, just—just let me talk. I never…I never get to talk.”   
  
Ion inhaled sharply, a thin sound that rattled hollowly in his chest. Lyubochka wound her fingers more tightly into his worn shirt, lifting her chin just enough for her words to be heard.  
  
“It’s enough,” she said finally. “It’s been over three years, Bessa. You’ve held onto his memory for long enough. There’s no shame in letting his memory be a memory and carrying on with your life. It’s…” she paused, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth anxiously. “It’s…not what he would’ve wanted, to see you pining away like this.”  
  
“Well, we’ll never know that for sure, will we?” Ion asked sardonically, tilting his head back over the arm of the sofa to stare at the ceiling and draw mental ley-lines between the clumps of dust clinging to the plaster.  
  
“He wouldn’t have,” she repeated. “He loved you.”  
  
The air shattered.  
  
Ion sucked in a deep breath past the mass of old numbness in his chest (over seventy years old, that knot), holding it deep in his lungs and belly as something keened where his heart would’ve been if he still had one.   
  
“If,” she continued hesitantly, “if you can’t do it for him, then…please do it for me? You can’t keep asking me to watch you do this to yourself and expect me to say nothing.”  
  
“The real question is,” he rasped, “why you keep coming if it only hurts you.”  
  
Lyubochka’s hold on his shirt tightened for a moment, her nails scratching at his skin through the fabric before loosening into a slack grip that disappeared completely. The splintered air shivered for a moment in the silence. Then she was framing his face between her hands and lifting his head to look him in the eye, bottle blue into pale gray.   
  
“Because,” she said. And then she pressed her lips to his, soft, light, quick, and entirely undemanding, pulling away a moment later to rest her forehead against his with her eyes tightly shut.  
  
“Because I love you.”   
  
“Oh,” he said.   
  
And that was the end of it.  
  


* * *

  
  
They were on the balcony again the next night, Ukraine with a mug of coffee to warm her hands and Ion with a slowly burning cigarette, their frosty breaths indistinguishable from the tobacco smoke.   
  
“I always wondered,” Lyubochka said suddenly, turning the mug between her palms, “or at least I wondered for a long time afterwards.”  
  
“Wondered what?” Ion asked in a monotone, eyes fixed on the distant city lights.  
  
“I always wondered if after all of that, you resented him for how everything turned out.”  
  
Ion froze for a moment before turning his head the barest number of degrees to stare at her. She flushed brightly under his gaze and ducked her head in embarrassment before continuing.  
  
“Obviously it wasn’t what he wanted because he was never the suicidal type and I don’t think anyone rational would really want to…go like that.” She balanced the cup on her knees and unconsciously smoothed a hand down the tops of her thighs, her clothing hiding vivid scars that hadn’t faded. “And I thought that surely you’d thought of this, probably. And I wondered if you resented him for it even though he couldn’t help or prevent what was already in motion—”  
  
“Are you  _trying_  to make me angry?” Ion asked incredulously, too shocked by Lyubochka’s boldness to actually be moved to anger. She smiled, lifting the steaming mug to her lips and not answering.  
  
Moldova placed the cigarette between his lips, gripping the filter tightly with his teeth to keep from grinding them together. He inhaled a short burst of smoke and exhaled it just as quickly, removing the cigarette from his mouth with a sharp movement and tapping out a sharp staccato rhythm on the balcony rail with his fingers.  
  
“I’m still angry,” he said. “God, I’m so unbelievably angry at him. It was all very much like him, wasn’t it? He acted irresponsibly, got in over his head, everything that could go wrong went disastrously wrong, and here I am having to pick up his slack. How could I not resent him for that?”  
  
“Is that all?” she asked calmly.  
  
There was a loud, tinny echo as he slammed his palm against the railing. He inhaled sharply, the air so cold that it hurt. He bent over the railing as he exhaled, unable to see the ground in the dark as he choked around his own breaths, making him feel like he might’ve been teetering at the edge of a precipice with no bottom to it. After a moment he straightened, taking a long drag from his cigarette before answering.  
  
“And why not,” Moldova said, rolling the cigarette filter between his long fingers before flicking it over the balcony’s edge into the night darkness. “S-a dus pe apa sâmbetei,” he spat dismissively, “I’m grateful to him, really.”  
  
Ukraine said nothing and kept her eyes low. Moldova didn’t need to look at her to know she was biting her lip; it was her oldest habit.   
  
“I’m grateful,” he repeated, not sure if he was trying to convince her or convince himself. “Because he was the greatest of bastards, when you get right down to it. He somehow managed to always bother me and yet always leave me alone by myself. He always promised a lot of things and kept his word so little. So because of him, I learnt so many things about how the world worked and that I shouldn’t expect to work in my favour ever, not really. Being overlooked has its merits though, doesn’t it?”  
  
He waited for her to answer, but she didn’t. She merely gripped her mug tighter until her fingers went white with the effort of it and her lip went pale beneath the pressure of her teeth pressing down on it.  
  
“…there are other things too, I suppose,” he continued. “It’s not as though I hate him or hated him or anything like that. I want to believe very badly that he always had good intentions when it came to me, but that fate or God or whatever is out there always sent his good intentions straight to hell. But I’m grateful, really, that he thought that much of me. I did learn so much. I watched everyone else running around, all of them ruining each others’ lives so dishonestly in the name of love or money or politics or even sex and I was always thinking that I was really the lucky one, even if I was so badly off.”  
  
“And why is that?” she asked quietly.  
  
Moldova examined the bitingly cold iron rail beneath his fingers for a moment, scratching silently at the rusty spots where the aging paint had flaked away.  
  
“It is a rare person,” he replied at last, voice barely above a husky whisper, “that can say their first love was their last love and mean it.”  
  
“Oh,” she said.   
  
And that was the end of it. ****  
  


* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Brașov: A city in Romania and the capital of Brașov County. Brașov is located in the central part of the country, about 166 km north of Bucharest. It is surrounded by the Southern Carpathians and is part of the Transylvania region. The city is notable for being the birthplace of the national anthem of Romania.
> 
> “Iyonya”: The diminutive form of “Ion”, Moldova’s human name.
> 
> “Bessa”: A shortened form of “Bessarabia”, the Slavic form of “Basarabia” which refers to former name of the region that the country of Moldova now covers. Meant here as an affectionate petname (which may not be an entirely good idea, but try telling HER that).
> 
> Ukraine’s burn scars on her legs: A reference to the Chernobyl Disaster that occurred on 26 April 1986. 
> 
> “S-a dus pe apa sâmbetei”: Literally translated, it means “It has been taken by Saturday’s waters”, meaning that all the effort was pointless or wasted. “It was all for nothing.”
> 
> Hydrangea: In the language of flowers, the hydrangea stands for frigidity and heartlessness.
> 
> Stayed tuned for Chapter Two!


End file.
